


Stick and Carrot

by singoallala



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singoallala/pseuds/singoallala
Summary: With Terror newly stranded in an unforgiving land, Francis turns to his bottle and a late night of ruminating his life choices. An old friend joins him."Is that why I'm here then, Frank? You're looking for a fight?""You're certainly provoking one!"Thomas purses his lips, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He nods to himself. "I see how it is"."Oh?" Francis shoots back, raising his eyebrows, his eyes still gleaming with anger."Yes. You need something to keep your mind off things".





	Stick and Carrot

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I watched it, they spoke to me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> If you enjoy it, please let me know! There might be more pornbunnies where this came from.

It’s late and Francis is brooding with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his pipe in the other, and for once Thomas Blanky is half inclined to join him - drink himself to sleep, to peace. England has never felt so far away and they are unmoored, adrift in the desolate landscape though Terror herself remains unmoving.  
“These are my worst fears come true”, Francis slurs, leaning heavily on the table and making a sweeping gesture with his glass to encompass the ship, the ice and the compact darkness surrounding them. “130 souls stranded at the edge of the world, lost to everyone but our own damn selves.” He squints at the cut glass in his hand and the few inches of whiskey sloshing around in it, as if searching for words. “God almighty”, he groans, “I could strangle that man.”  
Thomas blinks, unaccustomed to such frankness despite their long years of friendship. Some things are just not fit for a subordinate’s ears, no matter your relation or the bullets you’d take for each other. “I think you’ve had enough, Francis”, Thomas notes, not unkindly.  
Francis bristles, his fingers tightening around his glass. “I’ve not had nearly enough”, he shoots back, glaring, but his sweaty red face and slightly unfocused stare inspires more pity than fear. He pours another drink, slamming the decanter down with more force than necessary, zeroing in on Thomas’ tight expression as he swishes the drink around in his mouth, a cruel twist to his lips.  
"Well? Go on! Are you not going to tell me off?"  
"You're my captain", Thomas points out, unimpressed.  
"Oh, don't you 'captain' me! 30 years we've known each other", Francis stands, swaying slightly and gestures wildly, amber liquid sloshing. "D'you hear me, Tom? 30 years!"  
Thomas smiles, but his tight-lipped expression makes it look more like a grimace. "Is that why I'm here then, Frank? You're looking for a fight?"  
"You're certainly provoking one!"  
Thomas purses his lips, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He nods to himself. "I see how it is".  
"Oh?" Francis shoots back, raising his eyebrows, his eyes still gleaming with anger.  
"Yes. You need something to keep your mind off things". He stands, rounding the table and leaning in close, their chests aligning, noses almost touching. Francis is still clutching his drink in one hand; the other grabs Thomas’ shoulder for balance, almost involuntarily but maybe on purpose. He’s flushing, breathing with his mouth open and oh - he shouldn’t be attractive like this, but Thomas has known him for so long and so well it makes his toes curl, something warm pooling in his belly, trickling lower.  
“I can take care of myself”, Francis bites out.  
"I know. Left to your own devices, you're liable to drink yourself to death", Thomas says, plucking the glass from Francis fingers and downing the drink himself before Francis can protest.  
"Would that be so bad", Francis quips and Thomas pinches his side, hard. It's a familiar old dance, curbing Francis more destructive tendencies – with equal amounts of stick and carrot. Francis winces and hits him in the chest with a growl; Thomas laughs.  
"You're weak as a babe in your state, Franny boy." He places the empty glass on the table behind them and grabs Francis’ hips with both hands, pulling him closer, looks him intently in the eye. "Now, stop fussing like a lady and kiss me."  
"What about your wife", Francis says, half his mind still fishing for a fight though his eyes are rounder now, darker.  
"What about Sophia", Thomas counters, hands tightening on his hips as Francis reflexively leans back, frowning. Thomas dives in and places a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, smoothing out some of the tension: Francis sighs.  
"You're incorrigible", he mutters, leaning in, his hands smoothing over the lapels of Thomas’ jacket.  
"You're one to talk", he guffaws, nipping at Francis mouth, extricating the layers of shirts from Francis’ pants with one hand while the other slips into the back of his underwear, unashamed and practiced, at home.  
"Shut up, Tom", Francis mutters into his mouth, the tips of his ears glowing red. Thomas grins and pinches one, thinks he could probably use them for light in the dark; silently pleased that some things never change, that traces of the freckled pudgy boy he met all those years ago still remains in this melancholic, acerbic cynic of a man.  
"Oh, don't pretend you don't like it", Thomas snorts, unbuckling Francis’ belt and letting his trousers fall to the floor. "You've been begging for a good poking since the day you first got your prick wet. Tell me", he says, raking his fingers through the course, greying hair resting over Francis half hard cock. "Who was your first?" He gives him a tug. Francis almost chokes.  
"Was it an Adam?" Francis shakes his head; his face flushing red as if ashamed, as if horribly aroused. He moans, leaning with all his weight on Thomas for support. His breath is hot and moist in the crook of Thomas’ neck. “Was it a John?” Thomas asks, not really waiting for an answer as he thumbs at the head, smearing precum along the shaft, angling his face close to Francis’ temple: thin, paling strands of hair sticking to his mouth as he speaks to him, his words reverberating in his skull. “Was it Robert? William? Jack?”  
“No”, Francis moans, slurs, pushing at Thomas with his mouth, his hands, angling his hips and pressing closer. “Tom. Tom.”  
Thomas laughs: short, breathless and stroking Francis in earnest. He presses a kiss to his temple, the corner of his mouth, smelling the sweat, the booze and not minding it one bit. “That’s right”, he grins, voice low and hoarse. “Tom”. Their lips meet and Thomas trails his tongue over Francis uneven teeth, tasting whiskey and saliva before releasing him with a wet sound, smacks his arse. “Well, off to bed then!”  
Francis huffs, affronted, but is too long gone to argue; his leaking prick staining his white linen shirt where it falls past down his hip as he unsteadily makes his way towards the cot, almost tripping over his own trousers on the floor. Thomas takes off his own clothes, hanging them over a chair and lining his boots up under it, and turns to find Francis sitting with his back against the wall, his eyes closed as he strokes himself, breathing heavily. “Oi, patience is a virtue, Francis”, he admonishes him with a pinch to his flabby stomach, pushing him down on the cot and straddling his thighs, his own hard cock smearing precum onto the hairs below Francis’ navel.  
“As is chastity”, Francis growls and cracks his eyes open with a glare, his shirt pushed up under his armpits. Thomas snorts, pinching him again. “Oh, so you’re going to run crying to Sir John, then.”  
“Don’t mention that man!” Francis snaps, buckling his hips in a weak attempt to throw Thomas off. “Or I swear I will never touch you again, you oaf.”  
Thomas laughs, leaning over him and trying to capture his mouth even as Francis turns his face away. “Forgive me”, he snickers, circling a flushed nipple with his thumb. “I swear I’m not looking for a flogging”. He pinches Francis’ nipple, kissing him; Francis sighs into his mouth, hands coming up to grip at Thomas’ sides as he spreads his legs, allowing Thomas to press closer, heavier.  
“Just get on with it”, he mutters, though the eager press of his mouth betrays him.  
“Bloody romantic, you are”, Thomas notes, giving his side a fond pat before pushing himself up with a groan. He leans over to the bedside table and grabs a small vessel of oil, coating his fingers, holding Francis’ gaze and grinning as he pushes their aching cocks together, squeezing them in one hand. Francis throws his head back, breathing heavily through his nose as hoarse curses spill from his lips like drops of burning liquor. It’s a sight he’s seen many times before, and for a split second Thomas sees them all superimposed over one another – a string of moments just like this one leading him back in time: a pimpled Francis sprawled on his cot in their shared cabin, Francis flushed with his first real beer buzz on his knees in an alley with his mouth on Thomas’ cock, stolen moments in dark corners and cargo holds; a kiss here, a quick wank there and once even a furtive shag in the dark bushes at a late garden party - but never have they spoken about it, not with words, never once exposed these moments to the harsh light of day. Thomas can feel it trembling in his chest as he brings them both closer to the edge, can see it shining in Francis’ hooded gaze: something warm and sure, like a steadying hand on an uneven road.  
Thomas looks away. “Now, keep quiet”, he says, releasing their cocks and scooting backwards, turning his attention to Francis balls, his arse, pushing one fingers inside, listening to Francis’ groaning exhale as he slowly works him open. His back prickles with goose bumps from the cold, but the air between their bodies is warm and humid.  
Thomas adds another finger, blows hot air over Francis’ trembling stomach, the head of his cock, licks a wet stripe over Francis’ balls. He thinks he could stay here for a long time, though his knees and back have already started to ache. They’re both well past their prime now, he thinks, reaching up to wipe at the sweat collecting in the hollow of Francis’ throat, his sad bulldog face tense as if in deep concentration, his lips moving soundlessly as Thomas scissors his finger in and out, in and out. It’s not a terribly attractive sight, and he privately wonders if this is why miss Crawford turned Francis down twice, if she thought him too old, if Sir John had nothing to do with it after all. If so, Thomas decides, she is a foolish woman, for no face could be more honest, more openly caught in passion.  
Thomas stops, sits back on his haunches. Francis cracks an eye open, glares, his fingers twitching, feeling suddenly cold and wanting. "What?", he barks, kicking Thomas none too softly in the ribs with his heel. Thomas grunts, his crooked grin not faltering for one second, arranging Francis' legs so that they are hooked around Thomas' middle.  
"I like you like this", he says, holds Francis’ gaze as he pushes his fingers back in, watches Francis losing track of the conversation, his red face breaking out into a sweat again.  
"H-helpless?" Francis grits out, his thighs trembling.  
Thomas guffaws, withdrawing his fingers and guiding his own cock inside. "No, duck. Quiet. Too dumb to think."  
Francis opens his mouth argue, but all words leave him as Thomas rocks into him once, twice, three times: he’s pulled taut like a string, deaf and numb to everything except for Thomas’ hands and Thomas’ groans and his own thundering heart. He fumbles blindly after Thomas in the dim, wishing to bring him closer: squeezing his thighs around him and Thomas follows, leans in close, bumping his forehead with his own and Francis grabs his hand, placing a kiss to the rough skin of his palm and holding it there, tasting the salt.  
When Francis comes, it’s with a long sigh that seems to rob him of all air and he sags into the thin mattress, a doll cut from its strings, his come staining them both. Thomas follows him a moment later with a groan, pulling out to spill himself across the wiry hairs by Francis' groin.  
The cabin is silent save for their heavy breathing, the never ceasing wind howling outside, the thump of Francis' legs sliding off Thomas waist and landing on the cot. Francis has a hand over his eyes, his mouth open as he tries to catch his breath. Thomas is similarly exhausted as he leans back against the wall, pushing his hair out of his face. He glances down at his friend from the corner of his eye, admiring his handiwork with something akin to pride.  
He grins, poking Francis in his side. "You alive down there?"  
Francis swats at him with a groan. Thomas pokes him again, earning himself a knee in the ribs. "You're not even going to leave a bruise", he quips, resting his hand on Francis' bare knee.  
"Let a man enjoy a moment of peace and quiet", Francis grumbles and tugs his sweaty shirt down over his body: the chilly air is starting to re-infiltrate the room. He rolls onto his side, leaving more room on the cramped cot. Thomas doesn't take the hint, though his thumb rubs small circles on the soft inside of Francis' knee. He leans his head against the wall for a moment, still slightly breathless, eyes closed.  
A new silence settles over them, companionable. The ice groans outside, and something small squirrels its way through the wall behind them: it squeaks.  
"Tell me, then. What's on your mind?" Thomas asks, giving Francis a faintly calculating look.  
Francis groans. "Shut up or go away", he mumbles, his eyelids heavy, his body like lead. "I'm unsure whether I'm likely to experience a coherent thought ever again".  
Thomas laughs, rises from his perch with a sudden burst of energy. Puts his clothes back on, buttoning his jacket with care and drags a hand through his hair, smiling wryly at Francis, who looks at him through cracked eyelids, laying on his side.  
“Sweet dreams, Franky”, Thomas quips, giving his bare arse a slap before sauntering out, the door slamming behind him.  
Francis groans and pulls the blankets over his head, knows he let Thomas win this time, but is too worn out to think, and thus too tired to worry about their current circumstances. Their problems will likely still be there in the morning, he decides, and he can stay up ruminating all night then. With a sigh, he slips into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
